It is Christmas Day, but in Heaven, jolly it is not. Not one normally given to seasonal despair, our dear Head Angel, Mr. Jordan, could not help but succumb to a remembrance of remorse past. He sat in his own little corner of the way station, on his own little chair, and placed a pointy white dunce cap upon his own head, forgoing the good old jaunty tilt.
Returning from Belle and Ebenezer's wedding party, Clarence cha-cha'd merrily to his side.
"Ah, darling Mr. Jordan, I am happy to report another resounding success! Woo-hoo!" Baffled by Mr. Jordan's indifference, Clarence repeated, "Woo-hoo, I say! Um, nice hat. A little too pointy for this day and age, though, if you get my drift. If you don't mind my saying so."
Jordan removed the pointy white dunce cap and tossed it testily to the floor. He sighed heavily and turned sullenly to his former student."You are quite right, First Angel Clarence, my friend. Quite right. Oh, and congratulations on the Fezziwig correction. Well done."
"Oh, thank you, Sir! But whatever is the matter? You seem out of sorts."
"Again, quite right. Clarence, I've failed. I must confess it. I ... I have left a soul behind."
Clarence gasped audibly. "No! That's not possible!"
A tear dribbled down Mr. Jordan's cheek and splashed into a cloud below, unleashing a Winter Wonderland over an unsuspecting Los Angeles.
"Oops."
Clarence pulled a silk hanky from the bodice of his ruched angel garb and dabbed Mr. Jordan's cheek. "There, there."
In a rush to relieve his burdened heart, Mr. Jordan told Clarence that sad story of Max Corkle, a trainer for the Los Angeles Rams (as they were then). Max was the good and true friend of star athlete Joe Pendleton, whose body was prematurely removed from active duty. While Heaven waited, Joe's soul was placed into the body of another athlete, but his memory of his life as Joe was then erased, along with his friendship with Max.
"I managed to keep the girlfriend for Joe, but how could I have left the friend behind?"
"There, there," Clarence repeated, to little effect. He then gave his masterful angel-wing a whoosh and a swish, activating the high-def big-picture plate. Swishing left and swishing right, swirling all around, Clarence found what he had hoped to see: An alternative universe.
"Ah ha, oh lookie!" Clarence pointed to a minor character in one of his favorite Christmas scenarios, popularly called While You Were Sleeping. "This one must have happened while you were sleeping, Mr. Jordan!"
"You see? The soul of Max was reborn in another role, named Saul, and became a friend to another lonely soul, named Lucy."
"Not that football-stealing sham psychologist 'Lucy'? That's one soul even I'm afraid to tackle."
Clarence reassured his mentor that this Lucy was a good and true friend to the Saul that Max had become. Mr. Jordan's eyes twinkled brightly, but only for a moment.
"My dear sweet Clarence, my heart remains full of woe. For the first time in my career, I feel that The Powers That Be did not use their powers for the best possible good."
Clarence shuffled his feet a bit, not just for the pleasure of watching the wisps of pink-frosted clouds waltzing about his satin slippers.
"You no doubt are referring to the new Scut Farkus administration down on Earth." Clarence scratched his fuzzy chin and waltzed up a few more pink wisps.
Mr. Jordan nodded sadly. Waving his own majestic wing across the plate, he drew up the picture of the meanest bully in town, the yellow-eyed Scut.
"I just don't know how the forces of good could have let this happen. Imagine, a man like Scut in the White House, in charge of the freest part of the free world, with the most free will to do free ill. I am so disappointed."
Clarence furrowed a frown and pushed the sleeves up on his AngelWear gown. He knew this would require his most concerted efforts of imagination and resourcefulness. If only, if only he could imagine an alternative outcome. At what critical moment could the Scut Farkus history be diverted to another course of direction?
Determined to make right what once went wrong, Clarence clashed his wings together in cymbalic fashion and projected himself into a small town in Indiana at a crucial point in the pre-Christmas Story unfolding.
A young boy named Ralphie is being punished by his mother for saying a dirty word. The punishment being a mouthful of Lifebuoy soap, young Ralphie had a little trouble answering his mother's interrogations.
"Where did you hear that word? Tell me! Who said that word to you?" She removed the Lifebuoy so the boy could answer.
Ralphie could not tell his mother the truth, that it was the dear old man himself who'd uttered the word many times while changing tires, fixing fuses, and fighting furnaces. So, instead, he would name one of his friends, the first name that came to his mind,
"Schw...."
"Shhhh," Clarence interrupted in the boy's ear. "No, don't rat out a friend for this, me boy. Say, um, yes this should do the trick: Say 'Scut Farkus'!"
"Scuuuuut Farkuuuuuus!"
Mother shrieked in horror, replacing the Lifebuoy in Ralphie's mouth while she went to the phone to call Mrs. Farkus.
Clarence swooshed his wings to fast-forward the slightly revised Story, in which it is now Scut Farkus and not Schwartz who is punished: a far more just outcome, all things considered.
The grown-up Scut would become a model of kindness, not unlike other souls who have been shown the errors of their ways, such as our legendary Marleys and Scrooges. Satisfied that he had saved the world from a Scut Farkus administration in the White House, Clarence fled to Mr. Jordan's side.
"Mr. Jordan, Mr. Jordan, I have good news!" Clarence sang.
Mr. Jordan stood with his arms folded, a glower darkening his brow. "Do you, Clarence? Do you, indeed? Well, I'm afraid to say I have some bad news."
Mr. Jordan swooshed his left wing over the high-def plate to show Clarence the outcome of the events he'd unleashed. Clarence looked in horror at what he had done. He reached for the pointy white dunce cap and dutifully donned it.
"I'm gonna need a bigger Lifebuoy," he said.
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